


godchild

by aquilaofarkham



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Childbirth, Domestic Fluff, Emetophobia, F/M, Found Family, Half-Vampires, Jewish Character, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, One mom two dads, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pregnancy, Raising a baby, like really really mild, platonic ot3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquilaofarkham/pseuds/aquilaofarkham
Summary: Sypha visits the Speakers while in the throes of a sudden illness. Things take an unexpected turn and she realizes a change happening within her.
Relationships: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belandes, Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	1. a revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled as "the gang raises a baby together". Mainly Trevor/Sypha focused but Alucard is there for love and support as well. Updates might be sporadic as season three of the anime is on the horizon...

Sypha Belnades never fell ill. Other young Speakers lay upon their blankets with foreheads as hot as burning hellfire, doted upon by their mothers while she continued with her oral studies, ignorant but happy. She emerged from each changing season, from the coldest downpours to the most violent snowstorms with little more than a rough cough. Adolescence was the same, then came adulthood. The healers never saw her, never worked their own magic. Something shielded her from nature’s worst children, who did not look upon her family or friends with the same charity.

The older she grew, the more Sypha thought about death. When she slept, when she walked alongside other Speakers, and when they settled in some malcontented city. Never leaving her. How one eventually meets their ultimate end is a thought that graces everyone’s mind. A morbid yet natural impulse. Sypha knew death would never come to her through sickness.

She wipes her mouth and attempts to clean it with a healthy gulp of water after doing the unpleasant deed of emptying her stomach at the base of the nearest tree. Perhaps fate has finally dealt her a different hand. An overdramatic reaction, but Sypha cannot recall the last time she felt so nauseated. Nausea that hits her like a punch to the abdomen every morning, then returns with another punch when she least expects it.

She lists off every possibility; something she ate. Doubtful, she’s consumed nothing but the same dried meat and bread long before she left home on this temporary excursion. Longer before this ailment took hold of her. Anxiety. What is there to be anxious about when reuniting with your people? Worse.

Sypha straightens herself out and carries on down the dirt path. She’s strong—a trait she likes to remind people of—but the tomes in her bag coupled with her stomach declaring mutiny against its own body weigh her down. Grunting, she lifts the shoulder strap, giving her arm and back some fleeting respite. A little further and she’ll reach the main roads. _Where there are roads most traveled, there are always Speakers._ A little spark of wisdom Sypha’s grandfather taught her to use as a north star if she ever found herself lost and alone. Thankfully she’s not lost and hasn’t been alone in a very long time.

Another churn of her stomach, which mercifully passes just as Sypha reaches the end of the trail. Her eyes squint in the sunlight then adjust to reveal fields of green and wheat gold. Such an idyllic pastoral sight almost makes her forget the nightmare that was the Wallachian countryside a mere year ago. Almost. Not everything faded with time and there are still corners sheltered away from the light of day; she knows this firsthand.

Oversized vermin too smart for their own good, skittering to their hovels deep within forests and down steep riverbanks slick with mud where they can scavenge a few left-over bones. Most are happy with their newfound freedom while other remain lost, close to starving themselves if they haven’t already turned on each other. Sypha hopes it stays that way. Not every monster hides itself, nor do they bear fangs or claws of any sort.

Further down the road, as the sun reaches its highest point in the cloudless sky, a scene both familiar and distant presents itself to her. Not alien, yet something which was once so present in Sypha’s life now feels like an exceptional moment. She picks up the pace, steadying the weighty bag as it consistently bumps against her hip, and joins the entourage of canvas-covered wagons, tents, and wooden carts large enough to hold a dozen travelers. They wrap their bodies in the same simple blue robes, shapeless and concealed.

Sypha used to pretend her own oversized robes were the wings of a bluebird in disguise. Stretching out her arms and running beside the wagons as they drove onwards, hoping her wings would carry her up into the sky. She studied and practiced more than any other Speaker her young age. She would make herself fly one day.

“That’s all magic is, Sypha.” Someone told her all those years ago. “Changing things in accordance with your intent.”

 _If that’s true…_ She thinks, still in the grip of this memory. _Then why have I never taken flight?_

It’s thankful her bittersweet thoughts disperse at the sound of a Speaker excitedly announcing her arrival. The rest drop whatever chore they’re doing and erupt into a chorus of “Sypha’s come back!” They swarm her like bees to sweet honey, holding her hands, patting her back, and touching her face. This sudden display of physical affection (something Speakers have always done whenever a part of their community returns to the fold) reminds Sypha of how much she’s missed it all. How much they’ve missed her in turn. It almost hurts to know that this reunion is only momentary. Hurt and perhaps even guilt.

Gently making her way through the small crowd, she spots him by one of the carts. Recognizing his short white hair and the way he holds his aching back while trying to help much younger Speakers unload a ration of supplies. When he turns, their identical blue eyes meet and Sypha is running towards him.

“Grandfather!”

Her stomach and the bag do their best to slow her down, put a stop to her happiness, but she’s already in his arms, held tightly, before they can succeed. Sypha presses her cheek firmly against her grandfather’s shoulder. The eldest Belnades still smells like the scratchy yet warm blankets he used to wrap her in whenever they played “caterpillars and cocoons”. He’s warm like the candles he lit in the darkness so the nightmares wouldn’t come for his granddaughter in her sleep. He feels like an old home.

“It has been too long, my angel. How have you been?”

“Well! I have been very well.” Upon their separation, Sypha hopes he doesn’t notice any signs of sickness on her face. This is a happy moment, free of worry; it’s going to stay that way. “And yourself?”

“As spry as a man my age can be,” he chuckles.

“You look healthy. I’m sorry for being away all this time. But I brought things!”

“Oh? What sort of things?”

Sypha rummages through her bag. “New knowledge that will help others and help us better understand this world. History, science, magic, I cannot even begin to explain it all.” Looking back, it was almost silly how apprehensive she felt taking this knowledge from two ancient family archives, wanting nothing more than to share it with others she trusted. She never needed to beg or barter. The moment she asked, her living companions responded simply and in plain terms.

“Do what you want with it. We know it’s in the best hands.”

Elder Belnades finds a comfortable spot on the cart to sit down. He blankets his wrinkled hands in the sleeves of his robe, amused by Sypha’s hallmark enthusiasm. “We should consider ourselves lucky that our route of travel just so happened to coincide with your new home.”

She stops herself. The excitement in her movements gone, the pit in her stomach made worse. One of the many topics Sypha dreaded discussing but always knew she had to someday. It’s never been more difficult looking her grandfather in the eye. He senses her quiet distress and speaks for her. “Are you going to stay there?”

“I… I’ve thought about it. I’ve traveled so much, with others and on my own. It’s in my blood. But this place…” Sypha wrestles with her next words. They taste like betrayal, but they are honest, which is sometimes the very nature of betrayal. “I like returning to it… I want to return to it. Does this no longer make me a Speaker? Am I spitting in the face of our teachings?”

In the midst of her hurried speech, Elder Belnades withdraws his hands and gently beckons her forward. Sypha does so, unsure, but allows her shaking fingers to be held. “It would be a lie to say that we do not miss you terribly. Yet we all find our own paths in life. This is yours, Sypha. You carry the message of the Speakers with you wherever you go. For that, we will always be with you and you with us.”

It is difficult for Sypha to cry easily, just as it is for her to fall under such illness. Now while the lump in her throat grows too large to ignore, she’s certain something must be wrong. She won’t show it, nor will she say anything. If she does, her words might be choked back by the weeping that she’ll fail in holding back. Instead of speaking, Sypha tightens her grip before being drawn into another embrace.

“Though I have to ask, are you still in the company of that Belmont boy?”

Heat crawls across Sypha’s cheeks upon hearing that name, yet she remains composed. It’s an innocent (and expected) question. “I am. Why?” She overhears a scoff coming from inside the cart. There’s the innate feeling of knowing who it belongs to, so she doesn’t bother turning around.

“I find it curious. It seems as though it were just yesterday you threatened to personally defile his drink for his rudeness.”

“I was not being serious about that!” A hint of doubt in her cracked voice; maybe she was being serious that time. “Besides, he _was_ being rude.”

“And I assume he is no longer rude, correct?”

“… no.” Sypha wants to say more. Tell her grandfather about how much Trevor makes her laugh with his exaggerated whining and terrible jokes. How he puts up with her increasingly sweet yet humiliating nicknames with rolled eyes and a flushed cheek. How he keeps her warm during the coldest nights even when her own magic does the job well enough. About his best efforts to read magic whether it’s out of a desire to impress or fit it with his companions. Sypha wants to say how much he’s bettered himself. One word is all that comes out.

A third unmistakable voice speaks up, as though reading her mind. “Shame, really. You were our best magic scholar.”

Sypha once again chooses to not turn around; no response for what sounds like a backhanded compliment. Arn always has the best intentions at heart, valuing the safety, security, and preservation of his people above all else. He and Sypha are so similar, speaking their minds whether the time for such words was appropriate or not. Outspoken and stubborn, two traits which only strengthened with age. She ignores him for the moment and pulls out the books from her bag, handing them to her grandfather. The sense of relief upon her sore shoulder is the best she’s felt all day.

“These are not for you,” Sypha finally says to Arn. Before she can hear his mildly offended retort, someone low to the ground tugs at her robe. She sees one of the Speaker children, bashfully holding their hands together.

“My… my mama said you found the s-sleeping s-saviour.”

Sypha bends down, caught off guard. She nearly forgot about that old prophecy. “Yes, I suppose I did.” _By pure accident now that I think about it…_

“What was he like?”

She should be honest—an honourable man who wanted to do right, but also a brat. Someone who often let his own tragedies overshadow his good qualities. It seems she tends to attract people like that.

“He was wonderful. Everything our seers told us and more.” What good would it do to dash away a child’s dreams? Their eyes light up in the sunlight. There’s a surge of pride in herself as she watches them scurry back to their mother—pride that is unfortunately short lived. She feels it; despite all she’s done to suppress and contain, she feels it happening again. The colour drains from her face. She starts begging to herself. _Not now. Not now. Please not right now._

“Sypha, are you…?” Her stomach doesn’t wait for her grandfather to finish. Sypha scrambles to the other side of the cart, out of sight from everyone else. The sudden release and lack of breath creates tears in her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry because of the discomfort or unpleasantness but rather the frustration, the awful timing, and her own haywire emotions. The feeling of her grandfather’s hand as it rubs her back in a soothing manner makes the sting of oncoming tears worse.

“I’m sorry…”

“Shh, do not be sorry. What’s wrong? You have never been this ill before.”

“… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve been like this for days.” She can’t even muster up a bit of gallows humour to lighten the tarnished situation. “It’s not something I ate or…”

“You should see one of the healers before you leave.”

“I’m not sure if I sh—”

“Please, Sypha.”

No energy to argue or protest as she usually would. Wiping her mouth while holding back a defeated sniffle, Sypha hobbles to the nearest tent, her grandfather’s arm around her shoulders. They walk at almost the same pace.

* * *

The healers never saw Sypha Belnades until now. She sits diligently on the ground, layers of blankets stacked one after the other beneath her bottom in order to make it somewhat more comfortable. On the other side is a healer she thinks she recognizes from childhood—or not, she can’t say for certain.

So many Speaker children grow up to become healers; one could argue that every Speaker is a healer. Traveling from place to place, helping the needy, protecting the weak with little concern for their own safety, always someone else’s. The unwavering kindness of Sypha’s commune nearly got them all killed, yet they carried on. She doesn’t feel like a healer, she doesn’t feel like anything right now.

The woman sitting across from her whose name she cannot remember smiles in the soft way that is commonplace for all caretakers. “It is good to see you, Sypha.”

Sypha mumbles out a reply. “Is it really all that ‘good’?”

“You said it was your stomach that was bothering you. When did the nausea start?”

“A couple days ago.”

“And you are certain it has nothing to do with your eating habits.”

“Yes. It happens even when I eat nothing.”

“How often does it happen?”

“Most often in the mornings, then again throughout the day. But first thing in the morning, mostly.”

“Have you noticed any other odd developments?”

She pauses, thinking hard. “I feel… heavier. Bloated. I become exhausted after the smallest tasks.”

The healer’s half-lidded gaze drags itself along Sypha’s body, studying her carefully. It’s not easy reading her expressions and even harder to tell what she’s thinking. With permission, she shifts around Sypha, placing both hands upon her abdomen, chest, and lower back. The Speaker’s healers have magic of their own, combined with traditional medicine and unchallenged intuition. One touch in the right place and they can give their patients accurate judgments. Some diagnoses bring relief, others heartbreak. Sypha isn’t sure which is hers.

The healer rests her hand on Sypha’s stomach a moment longer before removing it. Another unreadable expression. “What is it? Is it bad?”

A smile. “No, Sypha. It’s wonderful. But that is up to you to decide.”

* * *

Elder Belnades waits for his granddaughter just outside the tent. His hands tremble due to his age and anxiety for her wellbeing. He’s watched countless other Speakers, some including the Belnades, pass away following a visit to the healers. When Sypha emerges, he stands at attention. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, lips slightly parted. She looks surprised.

“What did she say?”

Sypha’s dazed attention gradually shifts from the ground to her grandfather. “She… she said that… grandfather, I’m…” Unconsciously, her hand drifts towards the centre of her belly and he knows. How could he have not seen it before? His daughter reacted the same way; a far-off memory now standing in front of him against all odds. He wraps his arms around Sypha, eyes watering. He’s happy, so incredibly happy for her.

Sypha is happy as well. She thinks.


	2. a confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sypha returns home to speak with Trevor and Alucard. Emotions run high and Trevor admits to some complicated feelings towards his family's namesake.

It’s quiet walking back down the trail. Sypha’s steps are watchful as she fears her sandals will snag on the smallest out sticking root or stone and send her tumbling to the ground. She has to take better care; so much more can harm her now. Despite this acute focus, her other senses feel dull, clouded, nearly missing an important turn in the road if she wants to remain on the right path and not wander further into the woods.

Does she want to cry? Does she want to smile? Or should she vomit again? Not even Sypha knows for sure. The rational side of her mind quickly takes over as the only calming presence at this moment. Talk to someone, it tells her. Resist crawling into the most isolated crevices of your conscience out of a desperate need for solitude. Talk to the one person who should have been first to know. You are not alone in this.

Sypha tries to recall the night it might have happened. It wasn’t their first (and most certainly won’t be their last if she has anything to say about it). They were a mess of tangled limbs, laboured breaths, and sweat-drenched foreheads resting against each other. Of playful teeth nips along jawlines and sensitive necks where scars shaped like two circles still reside. Sometimes she was on top, sometimes he was. None of the positions worked then suddenly all of them did. There was possibly a long cylinder-shaped object attached to Sypha’s hips—Trevor’s idea, which he enjoyed very much.

Their kisses were interrupted by their own smiles and laughs. Trevor might have been too loud at one moment. But he was always gentle. Always soft. Always stopping to ask if things were alright even when Sypha made it painfully clear that everything was more than alright. Nothing else in the world mattered; they didn’t matter to the rest of the world. They only mattered to each other. Intimacy clouded their thoughts.

The next morning brought well-earned aches and pains in both their bodies. A certain half-vampire watched from a distance in amusement as Trevor struggled to walk with the same confident stride he normally did. Finally, Alucard seized his chance. He pulled the Belmont aside, put on a wry smirk that betrayed so much, and asked:

“Did you make use of that one spell book?”

Sypha knew what Alucard was referring to, as did Trevor. Her gut hurt from laughter while she held Trevor back from strangling him with the Morningstar.

Like all good memories, it offers temporary distraction until a humble sight comes into view. Stone layered upon stone creating a structure that stands firm, too small to be a true manor yet larger than most cottages nestled deep within forests. The roof has its own sharp peaks like the mountains that surround this territory, all while remaining low; the building is longer than it is high.

Late summer flowers crawl up the walls, matching those that reside in the encircling gardens. Sypha always looks forward to autumn when some of the vines sprout their coloured leaves, curtaining the stone with deep reds and oranges. During long winter nights, the soft hues of candlelight shining through frosted windows glow upon freshly fallen snow.

When Trevor expressed a desire to rebuild his home, she and Alucard took it as a sign of progress. A step in a direction neither one predicted. Trevor’s attachment to inanimate objects which happen to carry deep familial importance is sporadic. He will hold an old tunic with an embroidered crest in high regard, enough to keep it on his body for years.

Yet his devotion to a pile of ruins seemed quieter. In some cases, almost flippant, even if he didn’t mean it. Sypha and Alucard weren’t sure what Trevor was really thinking that night they walked amongst burnt ashes with torches in their callouses hands.

The resurrected Belmont estate is different. Outside, inside, and the feeling it instills within its occupants whenever they leave or enter through its front doors. The old home was a goliath, keeping watch over Wallachia and her children. Intimidation kept it alive, but only for so long. Trevor said he never felt alone in that manor. Yet he never said whether he felt safe or warm. There are many things he still doesn’t say about his childhood. Another lock around the reliquary that is his heart, which might never be opened by either Sypha or Alucard.

She ambles up the cobblestone steps to the front of the house when a sound catches her ear, muffled but not too distant. Grunts, the scuffle of boots against dirt, steel clashing against steel—the more than occasional “fuck you” said with such loving reverence. They’re doing it again. Is it to hone their already mastered skills or is it a mere competition? A test of how much one can push the other. Or are they simply trying to settle a petty argument? Sypha cannot say, the reason changes every instance. Sometimes she joined them of her own volition.

“Don’t let me win so easily,” she would say.

“Never,” both would respond. And she would still win, every time.

Sypha stops before she can reach the other side of the house. Should she tell them now or wait? Another churn of her stomach. Waiting will only worsen the feeling. She’ll make the terrible decision of sitting in the library with her own thoughts, biting her nails (or lighting them on fire before swiftly extinguishing the flame), rehearsing a speech that will only come out as a garbled mess when it comes time to speak. No, better to pull them away now and rip the bandage from the wound.

The closer she gets, the clearer she hears their voices. One refined and deep, the other far rougher but just as strong. Their words are interlaced with the continuous banging of their blades together.

“You’re much slower today.”

“Piss off. I just ate.”

“Yes, I am aware of your eating habits.”

“You always have to talk so much?”

“It’s to distract you. I think it might be working.”

“Fuck you.” It’s said with a laugh, not a grimace.

Sypha peeks around to the back lawn separating their home from the dense, untouched woods. Alucard keeps one arm behind his back, perfect form, and moves as effortlessly as a well-staged marionette. Golden locks sway with each twist and turn of his body. Trevor takes advantage of his own ambidextrous nature, flipping his sword from hand to hand in an attempt to throw off his opponent. Neither man seems to be winning yet, both are focused, and both are enjoying themselves far too much.

It only takes Sypha a few hesitant steps out from the shadows for Trevor to notice her first. His determined scowl softens, and his head perks up. “Sypha!” He calls out, his happy moment interrupted by Alucard immediately body slamming him against the grass. They have a one-sided tussle until Alucard wraps an arm around Trevor’s neck and pins him down.

“See? Distraction.”

“You cheating bastard!”

“You sore loser.”

“That was fighting dirty.”

“Ah, and you would be the expert on that, wouldn’t you?”

Sypha holds back a snort of amusement. “Alucard, please release him before you cut off his breath for good.”

“Anything for you.” He says without a hint of protest or mockery. Alucard loosens his grip and Trevor is already hurrying towards Sypha, lackadaisically draping himself off her shoulders.

“Sypha, thank god you’re back. You would not believe what he put me through.”

“Hm. Maybe you deserved some of it.”

“Never. I’m as innocent as a newborn lamb.”

“Welcome home, Sypha.” Alucard stands up and joins them. “How are the Speakers?”

“Very well. It was wonderful to see them again. Everyone loved what I brought them. You both should feel proud that the knowledge from your families is going to help so many people.”

“If you say so.” Trevor’s tone doesn’t quite match the assuredness of Sypha’s. There’s a bitterness that he won’t bring attention to or speak plainly on. Years of false accusations—the black magic users known as Belmonts, no different from the monsters they hunt—weigh heavy on his shoulders. His family was smart; for a time. They knew the sort of uproar that would come from the church and worse parties should they ever find the evidence of their trade, dating back to Leon’s time. So much so, they hid it all underground, accessible through a door unlocked only by uttering a few words from an arcane language.

_Yes, the magical door of death._

Now that knowledge has been unearthed, open to the world at large. Now it will “help” people rather than terrify them. They’ll sing praises at the last Belmont son instead of slinging water used to wash their dirty clothes at him. Trevor wishes he could share Sypha’s enthusiasm. Judging from Alucard’s lack of a response, he must feel the same way.

“What argument were you two trying to resolve? Or is this just a sparring match?”

“No, there was an argument.” Alucard admits.

“Over what? Or should I try guessing the obvious?”

Trevor steps in. “I was teaching him how to make an old matzo ball soup recipe my mother created. To help with your nausea. He suggested that we make the balls soft while I said I preferred them when they’re firm.”

“I remember it quite differently. You insisted that firm matzo balls are better and said I had no taste.”

Sypha stares at them both, torn over whether she should thank them for thinking of her in such a homey manner or if she should speak her opinion. “Firm, of course.”

Trevor turns to Alucard, never looking more self-satisfied before in his quick life. “Told you.”

Sypha listens as the men dissolve into banter, but the words aren’t clear to her. There’s laughter, smug grins, and nothing else. Everything seems muffled, her mind more concerned with other matters pertaining to her condition. This must be what it feels like to know something no one else does. They don’t know, but they should. They should know right now. 

“I need to speak with you both.”

The two of them put their squabble to an abrupt halt. “What is it?” Trevor asks, his look of curiosity and concern matching Alucard’s.

“Inside, please. I will tell you inside.” Her attempts at masking her anxiety are abysmal. No amount of smiling or carefree speech will be enough to convince either man, especially Alucard. He’s learned to better attune his intuition and senses—to a fault. Still, he remains silent even as they enter the house. He wants to hear whatever’s eating away at Sypha just so his own concerns can be put to rest.

They meander down the hallway kept bright by the sun’s rays streaming through the stained glass until Sypha brings them to the library and conversation room. A smaller, admittedly less grand imitation of the one Trevor grew up with. Part of him prefers it this way.

Single level bookshelves that reach up to a painted ceiling of the deep night sky and all its stars line each wall then converge on either side of a fireplace, one of many that keep the building warm. Carved into its wood is a cornucopia of florals and the odd hidden bat flying amongst their spirals and curves. The centre of the room is littered with cushions for when one feels too lethargic to study at one of the desks. They look as though they’ve been used rather well.

Sypha’s breath shortens, which she tries to rectify with a deep inhale and a quiet sigh. She didn’t mean to stall for this amount of time and every passing second fuels the temptation to keep her secret for as long as possible. What is she so afraid of? The reaction from Trevor and Alucard? Or her own?

“Alucard, could you… stay here? I need to talk to Trevor first.”

He takes it shockingly well. “Of course, but is everything alright?” He knows the answer, or something close to an answer, but asks to be courteous.

“Fine. Everything is fine. We won’t be long.” Wrapping an arm around Trevor’s, they exit back out into the corridor then down to their bedchamber. The brightest room in spring and summer, yet the coldest during winter as their windows face harsh winds. At night, they surround themselves in the heat of blankets, furs, and each other’s arms.

“Sypha, what’s going on? Did something happen?” Trevor sits on the edge of the bed and brings Sypha down beside him.

“Something did happen.”

“Was it bad?”

“No, no it wasn’t bad.” _Of course not. This is a happy thing. I’m supposed to be happy. So be happy… please be happy. For me, for him, for us._ “I saw one of our healers about my… about how I have been feeling.”

“What did they say?”

“They said… they said that…” Show or tell, tell or show. Sypha decides to do both. Taking Trevor’s hand, so scarred and calloused yet warm, she places it on her stomach and presses down. “I am with child.”

He realized what she was about to say before he heard it for himself yet the sudden hit of surprise still races through his body. Trevor keeps his hand where it is. The words do not come easy. “You weren’t expecting this.”

“Neither were you; I presume.”

“Is… is it mine? I-I mean, i-it’s really yours, but am… am I the father?”

Sypha almost laughs and almost cries. “Trevor, that is the silliest thing you have ever asked me. And I have heard some silly things come off that tongue of yours before.”

A couple stutters fall from his mouth before Trevor covers it with his other hand. His blue eyes shine with tears, fighting to keep them at bay. Oh god. Oh no. “Are you upset over this?”

“No,” Trevor chokes out. “No, I’m… I’m happy. Truly, I am. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” The answer not only sounds louder than Sypha originally intended it to be, it sounds far more panic-stricken. “I don’t know anything right now. Am I ready to do this? Become a mother?”

Trevor cups her flushed cheeks in both palms. “You are going to be an incredible mother.”

“What about you? Aren’t you scared?”

“Maybe. But it’s a joyful kind of scared.” He swallows hard as though his next words are the hardest he’s ever had to say. “Before I met you, before I met Alucard, I hated the idea of being responsible for my own family. I wasn’t ready and thought I never would be. My child would only end up turning into me or something worse and after everything I saw, after what had been done to me, I never wanted to bring a new life into the kind of world I lived in.” Trevor returns his hand to Sypha’s belly and rests his forehead against hers.

“Things are different now.”

“What about your family’s legacy? Will you want our child to continue it?”

“Really? That’s the first thing on your mind? What if our child can do magic? What if they put even you to shame?”

A genuine smile, the first from Sypha in hours. “I actually would not mind that.”

“But whether or not our child carries on my family’s work, they should make that decision for themselves. They’ll have the freedom to do it.”

“Because you didn’t.”

It’s put forth as a statement, not a question. Trevor can’t deny Sypha’s claim; the sort of life led by Belmonts for generations was forced upon him. As it was forced on his mother, father, grandfather, so on and so forth. He was just another addition to a long line of tradition, upholding a burden only they could shoulder. He does thank his family for the lessons, for putting swords and whips into his hand the moment he learned to stand. If they hadn’t, he would have died that first night alone in the gutter.

But the Belmont tradition is just that in his eyes—a burden, one that was necessary. Should their child choose that path, Trevor will do what his mother did for him. For now, in this moment, he wants to hold Sypha tight, kiss her wild strawberry-toned hair, and prepare for what is to come.

“I think we’re ready for this,” he murmurs against her neck.

They stay like this for a while. Sypha, so close to the core of Trevor’s body, she could melt right through into his ribcage, beside his heart. She’s calm now, and happy at long last. Briefly, she worries about complications, her health and that of her baby’s, and what will happen during her final night.

But they have the best doctor Wallachia can offer them. It’s time he knows as well.


End file.
